


Hell is filled with broken dreams (and I know the doorman personally)

by Fluffy_Stuff



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Best Friends, Demons, Friends to Lovers, Halloween, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27310765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffy_Stuff/pseuds/Fluffy_Stuff
Summary: What do you do when you're sixteen and the person you're in love with is not only completely out of your league, but also your best friend? If you're Patrick Stump, you tag along with them to a frat party on Halloween. And then all hell breaks loose. Literally.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37
Collections: Trick Or Pete 2020





	Hell is filled with broken dreams (and I know the doorman personally)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carbonbased000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/gifts).



> To the ever-so-awesome [Carbonbased000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/pseuds/carbonbased000), this fic exists because of you <3<3<3<3 Your endless support and encouragement, along with your countless hours spent helping me whip this into shape have meant the world to me! You are incredible!!!
> 
> And THANK YOU for your perfectly demonic artwork to go with this! This one's for you <3<3<3<3<3<3<3

"Let me get this straight. So you're going to a party. At a frat house. And the best person you could think of to drag along is a seventeen-year-old?"

Pete makes a face at him as he turns the car down Patrick's street. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a gift for making anything fun sound like delinquent behavior?"

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Yes. You, and only you." 

Pete pulls the car over and throws it into park in front of Patrick's house. Then he aims his pleading eyes at Patrick and—fuck, Patrick feels his defenses weakening under Pete’s intense amber gaze. "Lunchbox…"

"No," Patrick says, with less conviction this time.

Pete grins and leans in closer, rests his head on Patrick's shoulder, going for the kill. Patrick's heart flutters. He turns his face away so Pete won't see him blush. "Patrick, pleeeeeaaase? I just have to make nice with this guy and we could get time in a real recording studio! Plus, it’s a Halloween party—it’ll be fun."

"It's a school night." Okay, it's a feeble excuse, at best, and he knows it. But Patrick's so not a party person and, well, it's hard enough to hear the rumors about Pete. He thinks if he had to witness him cozying up to someone else, he'd faint or puke or do some other horrifying thing.

But then he looks at Pete, who bats his eyes coquettishly, and just like that, Patrick's heart swells and his resolve cracks.

"Fucking fine," Patrick huffs out, his voice tight with emotions he half-wishes would disappear forever.

Pete launches himself across the center console, but Patrick somehow manages to pry open the door and extract himself from the clutches of his best-friend-turned-very-affectionate-octopus. 

"Love you, Patrick! I'll pick you up at nine, sweet—"

Patrick slams the door in Pete's face, cutting off his words, and stomps a path through the sea of leaves separating him from his front door. He closes his eyes and relishes each satisfying crunch, wishing  _ just once _ he could say no to his best friend. At least the band might get something out of this scheme, so maybe it'll be worth it.

When he opens the door, he turns around and sees Pete still watching him, a kicked-puppy look on his face. "See you at nine," Patrick calls. Per usual, he blows a kiss to Pete, who smiles before starting his car and driving off.

***

As expected, Patrick’s mom is not pleased when he tells her he’s going out to a party that night. She presses her lips into a thin line in between bites of mashed potatoes and gives him the kind of look that says, “if you weren’t going with Pete, I’d lock you in a tower like Rapunzel.” Because no matter how outlandish and unadvisable Pete’s ideas, Patrick’s mom  _ knows _ Pete would take a bullet for her son. So all she says is, “Remember you have school tomorrow, so I want you home by midnight.”

Patrick just nods and drags himself upstairs to finish some homework and tinker around on GarageBand for a bit before he gets ready. Two hours later, he’s finished a new song and done so many trig problems he thinks he’ll see numbers behind his eyelids for days.

It’s already after eight and Patrick knows he should be throwing some sort of costume together, but when he opens his closet, his inspiration is nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, he turns on his TV and flips to a horror film to get into the Halloween spirit. 

His phone buzzes. It’s a text from Pete.  _ What r u wearing? _

And um, wow, that’s a little forward. His heart does a tiny flip in his chest. Best to play it safe, though.  _ My clothes? _ he types out.

The reply comes a minute later.  _ Nooo I mean to the party. Your costume _

Patrick’s heart sinks. Right. The party. Because only in his dreams would Pete be sexting him.  _ Um haven’t thought about it yet. Got ideas? _

_ Yeah u want to be a vampire or harry potter? _

Patrick sighs. Having a wand and a cool scar would be fun, but not as enticing as being a vampire. And yet, fake fangs are really uncomfortable…

Before he gets a chance to reply, Pete’s texting him again.  _ Do u have fangs? _ Looks like his choice has been made for him.

Patrick texts back,  _ Guess I’m a vampire then. Cool. And no why would I? _

_ Fangs are sexy. All the cool ppl have them, _ Pete answers him. And then a second later _ , I have some if u want to borrow _

Patrick smiles and texts back,  _ deal. I can handle the rest _

_ Awesome. See you soon sweetheart! _

Okay, his heart might flutter for a second whenever Pete calls him “sweetheart”, but what Pete doesn’t know can’t hurt him. His costume taken care of, for the most part, Patrick breathes a sigh of relief and settles back on the mound of pillows he’s built up on his bed for a little relaxation before he gets ready.

Instead, he falls asleep to Jamie Lee Curtis’ screams as Jason gets shot and lit on fire and somehow just doesn’t fucking die.

***

He wakes up to "Thriller" blaring somewhere off to his left. After about forty seconds of angry groaning and thrashing of limbs, wherein the song cuts off and starts up again, he vaguely realizes that the source of the sound is his ringtone.  _ Pete’s _ ringtone, specifically.

“Shit,” he curses as he reaches blindly toward his phone and answers the call. “Hey, what’s up?” he croaks out.

“Paaatriiiick,” Pete singsongs in a horribly off-key voice. “Your ride has arrived. You’d better be down here, ass in seat, in ninety seconds. Which you can totally do because you totally didn’t fall asleep while I was on my way over.  _ Right _ ?”

Fuck. Patrick shoots out of his bed like a rocket, leaving his phone on the pillow mound, and tears through his room like a tornado as he searches for something in his wardrobe that screams “vampire.” Nothing does. 

He picks up his phone again and says, despairingly, “Pete, what does a vampire wear?” 

Pete sighs. “Patrick, we’ve been over this before. We can’t talk about this kind of stuff on the phone. The unters-hay ight-may ear-hay.”

Patrick should get an award for not rolling his eyes so far into his skull that they never come back out. “Right. And they don’t know Pig Latin, I’m sure.”

“They might not! They’re not very smart. I appreciate your concern for my safety here, by the way. You know—”

“Pete!” Patrick cuts him off.

“Okay, okay,” Pete relents, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “So…black.”

“That’s your advice?” Patrick says incredulously. “Wear black?” He heads over to the window and pulls the shade aside, glaring out at Pete’s car, which is parked perfectly in line with Patrick’s bedroom, its presence as commonplace and reliable as his mom's voice waking him up each morning.

“Are you glaring at me through the window again? That’s really an unflattering habit, you know. Imagine if I were a suitor!”

Patrick knows it's just banter, but he can't ignore the slight sting in his heart at Pete's words. He tells himself it's only because he's never had many “suitors.” 

“Yeah, um, wouldn't want to offend all my admirers,” Patrick mumbles awkwardly. “So...thanks for your help. I guess I’ll just look for the darkest stuff I can find in my closet and I’ll be down in a couple minutes?”

Pete is silent, maybe a little thrown by Patrick's abrupt dismissal, but he recovers quickly. “Okay, well, take your time. Pick out something sexy,” Pete tells him. “I want to make sure we knock 'em dead. And, um, I'm right here if you need me.”

Patrick blushes, grateful that Pete can't see him right now. "I know," he says, because Pete being there is the one thing he can always count on. "Thanks, Petey. I'll be out as soon as I can."

***

Patrick walks out the door three minutes later in a pair of black skinny jeans, boots, and a black button-down shirt he stole from his brother’s room.

“Hey,” Pete says as Patrick slides into the passenger seat, feeling like the Bonnie to Pete’s Clyde. “You still okay with going tonight?”

Patrick nods. “I know why it’s important to you."

Pete raises an eyebrow. "To me?"

"Well, to our band, I mean," Patrick amends. "It would be weird for just one guy out of a four-person band to show up. I can deal for a little bit.” He musters up a half-hearted smile.

Pete turns to face Patrick a little more, tilting his head in thought. “You know that's not why I asked you to come, right? Like, I could go by myself, but...I just feel better having my best friend with me, you know? And besides, we’re supposed to be spending every Halloween together. I'll be damned if I let a stupid party keep us apart.”

Patrick cracks a smile, stopping himself before it turns into a full-out grin. “Oh, well if that's why, then what kind of friend would I be to end our tradition?”

"Exactly my point," Pete says proudly.

Patrick expects Pete to start the car and drive off then, but that doesn't happen. When he turns to look at Pete, he sees his friend's gaze linger on Patrick's mouth a moment before flicking up to his eyes and Patrick starts to wonder if this is the moment when they’ll cross the line. Patrick licks his lips subtly and when Pete leans closer, bracing a hand on the seat behind him, his breathing picks up. Just as Patrick’s about to shut his eyes, Pete…leans past him and clicks open the glove compartment. 

Patrick breathes out, deflating as Pete turns on the map light above them. “Hold still a second,” Pete says, oblivious to Patrick's burning humiliation as he uncaps a long pencil. “Like, seriously. I will never forgive myself if I poke your eye out.”

“Okay.” Patrick grabs onto the dashboard to brace himself and blinks a few times and then Pete’s the closest he’s ever been to Patrick, practically in his lap, as he tugs at Patrick’s lower lash line. “Stay still,” he murmurs, and holy shit, this is so weird. Patrick has to tamp down a sudden urge to fucking bolt from this car without looking back. 

Pete pulls back a bit and smudges under Patrick’s eye with his thumb thoughtfully. “Looks hot,” he decides. “Okay, turn your head a bit. We have to do the other one.”

“The other one?” Patrick parrots back, like an idiot. 

Pete chuckles, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “Two eyes, Tricky.”

“Right,” Patrick mumbles, and does as Pete tells him. 

A little discomfort and a minute later, Pete leans back again, assessing his work, and finally nods. Pete stashes the eyeliner away and pulls out a shorter, thicker tube. “Okay, don’t freak, but I thought you might want a little blood on your face to go with the fangs and all.”

Patrick looks down at the tube Pete’s just uncapped. “Lipstick?”

“Yeah, it’s like a dark red. I stole it from my mom’s vanity.” Pete shrugs and watches Patrick with a guarded yet hopeful expression.

Patrick really isn’t keen on having red lipstick all over his face, but he knows he’s going to say yes anyway, because he just wants Pete to smile. And when Patrick says okay, his reward is Pete’s wide, toothy grin as he smears the lipstick artfully over Patrick’s mouth and chin.

Once his work is done, Pete stows his tools away and pulls down the visor for Patrick to see himself. Patrick has to admit the black and red smears are jarring against his pale skin. He looks even more the part than he could’ve imagined.

“See? Dead sexy. Or should I say  _ undead _ sexy.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick groans, trying his best to hide the way he’s glowing with pride. “Start the car and let’s go so I can pretend you never said that.”

***

They make their way through the throng of delinquents on the lawn and into the frat house quickly. Once they’re standing in the noisy foyer, colored lights flashing all around, Patrick finally gets a good look at Pete. There’s a swatch of red on his neck that suspiciously resembles the color smeared around Patrick’s mouth and dark red paint splattered on his shirt. “What’s your, um, costume, by the way?” Patrick half-shouts.

“Your first victim,” Pete answers casually.

“What?”

“You heard me, Tricky,” Pete shouts back with a wink. “You’re gonna be the last person I see. Romantic, right?”

Patrick crosses his arms, eyeing his surroundings warily and feeling uncomfortable for more reasons than he can count on both hands. “Um, no. That is creepy on so many levels,” Patrick murmurs. 

What is romantic, though, is the way the lights are glinting off Pete’s skin, making his smile shine and his eyes gleam. But then some passersby jostle them and they’re shoved into a wall right by the stairs, the heat of Pete’s body temporarily pressed against Patrick making him feel even more overwhelmed, and all Patrick can think is that this night might  _ actually _ kill him.

“Oh, shush,” Pete brushes him off as he takes a step back. “Now be a good vampire murderer and help me find this guy. His name is Jake, I think.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Great, so that narrows it down to just about…every fourth guy here.”

“Relax, we’ve got this,” Pete says, smiling as he claps Patrick on the shoulder. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Suddenly, Pete’s reaching into the pocket of his jeans and, with an exaggerated flourish, there’s a set of plastic vampire teeth floating before Patrick’s eyes.

Patrick grimaces slightly. He’s been hoping Pete really would forget, but it seems his luck has run out for the night. "You did at least wash these, right?" Patrick asks carefully. 

"Uh, maybe after I wore them last?" Pete wipes the fangs with the corner of his shirt and holds them out again. "I swear I'm clean anyway," Pete says with a wink.

Patrick rolls his eyes and does his best not to make a face as he picks the cheap plastic fangs up and places them in his mouth gingerly. As soon as he starts to imagine where the fangs might have been, he almost spits them back out. He fights the urge by focusing on the scrape of the hard edges along his gums instead.

But then Pete smiles at him and Patrick knows he’d endure a month of these nasty fucking things in his mouth if it made Pete happy. 

“Uhkay. Suh wheh duh weh luck fust?” Patrick asks, hoping that Pete is somehow able to make sense out of his garbled words.

Pete bursts out laughing instead. “Oh my god, why didn’t I give you vampire fangs sooner?”

Patrick crosses his arms. He tries to accuse Pete of being mean, but instead it comes out “Yuh mehn,” and Pete just laughs harder until he’s doubled over.

“Patrick, you’ve gotta stop or I’m gonna lose it,” Pete says, bracing himself against the wall.

Patrick narrows his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut, hoping Pete will get the message. But Pete’s not looking at him anymore; he’s stopped laughing, too. As Patrick turns to follow Pete’s gaze, a leggy blonde dressed as an angel struts past, unconvincingly “bumping into” Pete on her way to the staircase. “Whoops, sorry,” she giggles as she rights herself, then makes eyes at Pete before slowly progressing up the steps. Patrick doesn’t even need to see the look on Pete’s face to know that their plans to tackle this party together are shot to hell. 

When Pete turns toward him, a spark of excitement in his eyes, Patrick feels the bile rising in his throat. He should’ve seen this coming when he said yes to this fucking party. Actually, he did, and he still tagged along. God, he's an idiot. He barely registers Pete saying, “Hey, um, I think it’ll go faster if we split up, so I’m going to start looking upstairs," before he's brushing past Patrick and heading to the staircase. "You can start out down here. Just text me if you find him, okay?” Then Pete's slinking up the steps toward the girl in white, who looks more ready to drag Pete into the closest open room with every step he ascends. Patrick can’t blame her.

Patrick turns back to the party, an empty ache in his chest, before he sees any more. He draws a shaky breath, reminding himself that Pete’s single and free to pursue anyone he wants. Even if that someone isn’t Patrick. 

Yeah…it’s not working. He just needs to find this Jake guy as fast as possible and interrupt Pete before he and the “angel” get too busy. Patrick cuts quickly through a crowd of dancing sexy nurses on his way to the kitchen, which is sure to be gossip central. He eyes the beer on the counter and almost takes one before he remembers that he’s still underage and even if his mother loves Pete, she will flay him alive if he brings Patrick home drunk. Plus, he can’t drink with fangs in anyway. They click uncomfortably in his mouth as he realizes that he actually has to talk to people if he wants to find this mysterious Jake guy. 

He’s just about to pull them out and cut into a conversation a couple of guys are having when a door down the hall swings open. A string of guys, sans costume, walk out and Patrick catches the words “record deal” and “bullshit” before they stomp out the back door. It seems like a good lead, so when a guy who looks like a linebacker waltzes out the same door and stomps his way into the kitchen to swipe a beer off the counter, Patrick spits the plastic fangs out and runs after him.

“Hey! Are you Jake?” he asks.

The guy stops, turns to look Patrick up and down and then sneers. “Kid, you look way too young to be here. You’re gonna get us all arrested.”

“Okay, but my friend Pete—"

“Look, kid,” Possibly Jake interrupts him. “I don’t care about your friend. You need to—"

A bloodcurdling horror-film scream from upstairs cuts through the thumping music and cacophony of voices. Patrick freezes, a lead ball hitting bottom in his stomach, as an inexplicable wave of dread crashes over him. Because Pete's not here, and the screaming is multiplying, reaching a crescendo of doom that won't stop. Patrick whips out his phone, his fingers a blur as he hits the call button on Pete's contact. 

The tightness in Patrick's chest doubles with each ring that the call goes unanswered, until he can't take it anymore. And he's not sure how or why, but he just  _ knows _ that he needs to get to Pete. Now. He flings his phone and makes for the stairs, running like he’s never run before.  _ Pleasebeokaypleasebeokaypleasebeokay _ , he prays. 

Patrick tears up the steps, down the hall, and into a room where people are congregating, vying for a glimpse of whatever’s going on inside. He knows before he cuts through the crowd exactly what he’s going to find, but it still doesn’t prepare him to see Pete, lying in a pool of blood, the red lipstick he’d smeared on his neck looking darker and wetter and frighteningly real. And if that’s all Patrick focuses on, he can almost convince himself his eyes are mistaken. Except Pete’s face, usually so vibrant, is drained of color and life, his eyes dull and unseeing.

_ "Pete!" _ he screeches, pushing his way through the rest of the bodies separating them, like they're mannequins and not people. It feels like his heart has stopped beating, but even if it has, he really doesn't care, because all he can see is  _ Pete _ , his Pete, the center of his universe, the sun to Patrick's earth, lifeless on the floor. 

Patrick collapses on the hardwood next to him, tears flowing like rivers down his face as he reaches trembling hands out to touch the shiny patch of red. It's warm and a little sticky on his fingers and there's far more than he'd thought.  _ Nonononono _ . He presses his fingertips to Pete's neck, where his pulse should be, strong and steady, like always.

There's nothing.

The last thread holding Patrick’s sanity together snaps. The air feels unnaturally thick around him and he just can’t  _ breathe _ . Someone’s talking to him, putting an arm around him and pulling him away from Pete, but he can’t hear a word they’re saying. Then the room starts spinning, his vision prickling with little black dots and he can’t fucking be in this room right now. Patrick breaks free of the stranger’s hold, using one last burst of energy to propel himself through the crowd on weak legs because he just needs to get  _ away _ . 

As he stumbles into the hallway, his body is tingling and shaking uncontrollably. He knows he can’t make it to the stairs and couldn’t take them even if he did. His senses are both heightened and completely wiped away and he just wants to crawl out of his skin. The next thing Patrick knows, his knees are buckling and he’s puking into a fake plant in the hallway, feeling strangers’ hands lowering him onto his side as everything finally stops and fades to black.

***

Somehow, he makes it home. After some delicate questioning from the cops, his mom shows up, and he's never been so relieved to still be a kid, because he can barely function beyond nodding and shaking his head and speaking in monosyllables. He thinks he hears his mom make some vague promise to bring him down to the station in the morning after sleeping it off. 

He kind of wants to laugh when she says it, because he can’t sleep this off, tonight or ever; he'll never feel rested or better or anything beyond pain and despair again, because  _ he just lost his soulmate _ and he doesn't think most people ever meet that person, so they can't possibly understand the torment in his soul right now. His mom seems to understand a bit, though, judging by her grim expression as she wordlessly helps him clean up and get into bed.

After a few hours of heart-pounding nightmares that leave him shaken and heartbroken anew every time he wakes up, Patrick gives up and swallows some Benadryl. It seems to do the trick.

Until the next time he wakes up. But it’s not from a nightmare this time. There’s a sudden chilly breeze at his back. Patrick rolls over and looks toward the window and he’s met with—no. No, it’s…it’s not  _ possible _ .

But then he sees the gleaming white teeth and the amber eyes that make his heart feel full and he just can’t help himself. “Pete!” The cry rips out of him like he’s powerless to stop it, like it’s not really him that’s doing it, but the part of his soul that’s forever intertwined with Pete’s, desperate to recover its twin. He’s halfway through launching himself out of the bed when Pete meets him in the middle. “Patrick,” Pete sighs, tackling him back into the warm sheets.

Patrick’s sobbing—whether it’s from relief, confusion, or anguish is anyone’s guess. As they land, Pete perched on top of him, limbs interlocked with Patrick’s, his hand cupping Patrick’s face gently, it feels like everything Patrick’s ever wanted, but the nightmare version of it instead. Pete’s hand on his skin is cold, there’s a gray tinge to his face and lips, and where Patrick should be feeling Pete’s breath against his neck, there’s simply…well,  _ nothing _ .

Patrick bolts upright, knocking Pete off him. “You’re not you,” he says. The panic in his voice makes him even more terrified and even more certain that he’s right.

“What do you mean? Of course I’m me, asshole. I’m just…dead now.” Pete shrugs innocently, but Patrick just  _ feels _ something wrong with this Pete, something that goes deeper than death.

“No, you’re not my Pete,” Patrick says, struggling a bit against the freezing grip Undead Pete now has on his arm. 

Pete’s expression softens into something resembling hurt. “Wow, so much for the heartwarming welcome I was expecting,” Pete mumbles. He loosens his grip so Patrick can pull his arm free and then rolls away, curling in on himself until he looks small and lonely. Okay, maybe he’s not  _ Pete _ Pete, but whoever’s in Patrick's bed with him now is still "Pete" enough to need a Patrick.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick croaks out, his voice still hoarse from crying for hours on end. “I’m sorry you, um…died.” He doesn’t know what else to say. There’s no etiquette book for greeting your undead best friend who just climbed in through your window while you were sleeping.

“Sorry?” Pete seems confused as he slowly turns back to face Patrick. “There’s nothing in the world for you to be sorry about, Patrick. It wasn’t your fault. I’m just...impulsive and reckless and stupid. I should’ve been more careful. I'm just glad it was me and not you.” Pete yanks a hand frustratedly through his hair now. “God, why do I make such a fucking mess out of everything?” he says in despair as he buries his face in Patrick’s pillow.

Pete’s spouting off more self-deprecating words into the soft fabric, but Patrick isn’t even listening. He just rubs Pete’s cold back through his shirt and feels his own heart pound harder with anxiety as the one thing he’s been regretting beyond all sense and reason for the past however many hours looms overhead, like dark clouds gathering in a funnel to whirl Pete away from him if he doesn’t spit the words out fast enough. 

What’s ironic is that from the day they met, Patrick felt like he was doomed. Because Pete is handsome and cool and someone who should never, under any circumstances, be hanging out with someone like Patrick. But for some reason beyond Patrick’s comprehension, he does, and he seems to enjoy Patrick’s company. 

On bad days, Patrick is half-convinced that Pete is a fairytale prince he’s conjured up in his head, and whatever ties Pete to him is simply an illusion, a tenuous thread that can snap at any moment and render him lonely and heartbroken. No matter how many times Pete’s picked him up from school or written songs with him or looked at him like he’s made of pure sunshine, Patrick has never been able to think of Pete as something permanent, something real.

When Pete was ripped away from him tonight, Patrick realized his mistake. He’s been replaying the words he couldn’t say in his head over and over, creating his very own torture chamber inside his brain. The one thing he really can’t forgive himself for is not soaking up every drop of Pete’s unconditional love while he still had him. 

Patrick looks over at his best friend, who, against all science and logic, has somehow defied the one life event that no one escapes and come back to him. If this isn’t fate, Patrick doesn’t know what is. So even if he’s terrified out of his mind and not entirely sure what’s happening right now, he’s not going to waste another second pretending he doesn’t write “Patrick Stump-Wentz” all over his notebooks.

Patrick scoots in closer to where Pete still has his face buried in the pillow and wraps his arms around his undead best friend. Patrick tries not to shiver at the icy coolness of Pete’s skin as he pulls him in closer. 

Pete doesn’t miss a beat as he turns in Patrick’s arms. His faraway look shifts to a gentle smile as he lets Patrick take control. “What’s up?” Pete asks amusedly.

“I…I’m,” Patrick starts, and then cuts off. This isn’t coming out right. Pete’s smirking affectionately at him now, and it’s so beautiful that Patrick thinks maybe he’s the one who’s dead and not Pete, because Pete’s smile is too radiant to exist in such an awful world. And yeah, that thought makes sense in his head, but he’s not sure it still would if he said it out loud. Honestly, words could never express the warm feeling blooming in his chest, but they’re all he has, and he has to say something before he loses his chance. Again. But when he looks up at Pete, sees those enchantingly beautiful eyes trained on him, his resolve collapses like a house of cards. “I'm going to miss you so much,” Patrick says as hot tears gather in his eyes. He buries his face in Pete’s shirt and squeezes his arms around Pete’s middle for emphasis. “Why did you have to go and die on me? That’s such a dick move,” he sobs into Pete’s shoulder.

“Shhhh,” Pete says, cupping Patrick’s face tenderly as they shift around. And now it’s Pete holding Patrick instead of the other way around. Pete’s familiar, but cold, fingers trace over Patrick’s back soothingly as he whispers, “Please don’t be upset, Patrick. I missed you, too, and that’s why I’m here. This isn't the end for us.”

Just as Patrick’s basking in the wonder of Pete saying the words back to him, Pete holding him close and staying right there, the rest of Pete’s words finally click in Patrick’s brain. Patrick pulls back suddenly, wondering if the Benadryl and all that his body has been through tonight is messing with his hearing and comprehension, because how could this not be the end? “Not the end? What do you mean? You’re, um…” Patrick gestures helplessly at Pete’s slightly decayed form.

“Dead. Yeah, I know,” Pete says, rolling his eyes. “But just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I don’t exist anymore. I’m just…somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else? Like heaven or hell?”

Pete bites his lip and his eyes flick away. “Yeah, something like that. And, um, I don’t have much time, but…I’m actually just here to see you…” Pete sighs contentedly, his arms squeezing Patrick a little tighter. 

Patrick’s heart is thumping hard, full of a discordant mixture of hope and fear. “Why?” he prompts softly.

Pete looks at Patrick shyly, which is something that has never happened in the history of their friendship. Another warning zings up Patrick’s spine. “Um, I was kind of hoping…you’d want to come stay with me. For like…ever.”

Patrick goes stiff as a board. “W-what?”

“Well, I’m dead, so I can’t stay here with you, obviously. But I have this really nice place in hell now. The only problem is I can’t stand being there—or anywhere, really—without you. Especially not for eternity, so…yeah,” Pete says, shrugging, like he’s explaining why two plus two equals four. “Um…do you want to come…be dead with me?”

“Be  _ dead _ with you? What the actual fuck, Pete?” Patrick’s pulse is hammering in his chest and he’s pushing at Pete’s shoulders, trying to back away. 

“Hold…still…Patrick,” Pete grunts as he fights against Patrick’s attempts to wriggle away. “I swear, I’ll make it quick. You won’t even feel a thing!”

Patrick thrashes, but Pete’s once soft, comforting arms are now a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter until Patrick feels like a trapped mouse. “Pete, let go.”

“No, Patrick. I can’t lose you. I have to bring you back with me,” Pete says vehemently, his fingers digging into Patrick’s flesh through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. When Patrick looks at his face again, Pete’s amber eyes have turned completely black.

“What are you?” Patrick gasps, his eyes widening as he realizes that this… _ creature _ in his bed is  _ not _ his Pete, not by a long shot. His Pete would protect him at all costs, even from himself. 

Patrick struggles harder than ever, kicking, screaming, anything it takes to get away from this monster who commandeered his best friend’s body. After a tussle that Patrick knows he’ll feel later, he lands a knee to Demon Pete’s stomach and uses his leverage to roll himself off the bed. He lands on the floor with a hard thud and scrambles to his feet, eyes darting between Pete and the window and the door. The three form a kind of triangle, Pete the point in the center, nearest to Patrick.

“You’re not going to make this easy, huh?” Pete says, his midnight eyes narrowing, looking every bit as evil as his Pete normally looks sincere.

“Not when you’re trying to fucking  _ kill _ me!” Patrick shouts. Then he picks up a hefty hardcover from his nightstand and chucks it at Pete. The hard corner of the spine hits Pete square in the shoulder, and the force of it should be enough to knock any living creature off balance. Instead, Pete just stands there, blinking at him.

“Oh, fuck it,” Patrick groans and bolts for the door, narrowly avoiding the ankle Pete tries to trip him with. He makes it to the stairs and stumbles down them in total disregard of the racket he’s making, and definitely not turning back to look and see if Pete’s following him. 

Patrick knows he won’t make it very far if he’s running barefoot down the street in the dark, so he runs toward the front door and swipes up a pair of shoes. He haphazardly smashes them onto his feet as he flings the door open, not even bothering to pull it shut behind him. If he makes it through this night, his mother is going to kill him in the morning regardless, and since he's pretty sure Demon from Hell tops the list of unapproved houseguests, the best thing he can do for her is get this psycho out of her house pronto.

Patrick sprints down the dark, quiet street as fast as he can, no traffic to be seen, given the predawn hour. “You can run, Tricky, but you can’t hide from me!” For the first time when he hears Pete calling after him, Patrick doesn’t listen.

Pete’s probably right, but Patrick has to at least try. He barrels down the block and takes a left, going toward the largest, closest building he can think of—his high school. He seems to get there in seconds, the brick facade looming large and perfect before him. Patrick runs up the sidewalk, trying to remember which door is the janitors’ entrance. He finally spots a door that’s tucked away in an alcove, a scattering of cars parked nearby. Footsteps pound hard and fast on the pavement behind him.

Patrick wrenches the door open and runs down the hall, his lungs burning and his legs aching. He heads toward the science labs, toppling garbage cans, shoving tables and chairs and anything else he can get his hands on into Pete’s path. At one point, he puts a chair through a display case and chucks gold-plated trophies at Pete, which are exactly as effective as the gigantic tome he threw at him back in his room.

“Really?” Pete says, hefting a statue of a soccer ball and throwing it back at Patrick. Patrick literally  _ hears _ the dent it makes in the cinder block wall behind his head as he ducks. “Is that the best you can do?”

“Fuck you!” Patrick yells back, because yeah, that really was his best option at the moment. Never mind, though, because he’s right where he wants to be. He jogs, makes one last turn, and ducks into the first room in the science hallway and slams the door. 

Patrick listens for Pete’s footsteps in the hall as he slowly backs toward the closest lab table. He rummages through the cabinets below, searching for literally anything flammable. Fire usually kills most things, right? He tries to think of his demonic stalker as a “thing” rather than Pete, because if he thinks of it as Pete, he might just let the thing kill him and drag him to hell. It would be much easier than to actually harm someone he loves so much.

Patrick’s fingers tremble as he shoves supplies around. He finds matches easily. When he comes across a bag of flour, he sighs with relief and pulls it out, just in time for Pete to swing the door open and swagger into the room. “You know, you’re not as good at hiding as you think.”

“Oh, I’m not hiding,” Patrick says sweetly, barely making eye contact. “Actually, I was hoping you’d find me.”

Pete comes to a stop on the other side of the lab table. “Why do you have flour?” he asks, confused. Then his face lights up in a smile. “Oh, is this like a little private party and we’re going to make a cake to celebrate us being together?”

Demon Pete is either a really good actor, or he’s significantly dumber than Patrick’s Pete. “Yeah,” Patrick says. “Can you come over here? I need you to help me with something.”

Pete stalks closer, watching Patrick dreamily. “You know, we can just celebrate in hell. We’ll have our new family there for it, then.”

“Oh, but it feels more like ‘us’ here,” Patrick says in a saccharine voice that makes him feel queasy. “Hey, can you turn on the burner for me?”

“Sure, babe,” Pete says, twisting the knob so the gas starts flowing. “What’s next?”

“Um, fire…” Patrick says, striking a match and letting it ignite the burner, keeping his eyes aimed downward. He’s doing this to save his own life, he reminds himself. As long as he doesn’t look up and see Pete’s face, he’ll get through this.

“Great, so what’s the first ingredient?” Pete asks.

“This!” Patrick reaches into the bag and throws a fistful of flour at him, right across the burner, the air between them igniting into flame and engulfing Pete’s arm. 

“Fuck!” Pete yells, already flailing to put out the fire. “Patrick, we really need to work on your romance skills!” Pete's scrambling to turn the burner off, but Patrick just douses the demon with more flour, right across the open flame, and runs out the door, slamming it shut before barricading it with a random table. He’s not naïve enough to think he can actually  _ kill _ a demon with fire, of all things, but he at least hopes this will slow Pete down enough for him to come up with a better plan. Patrick’s right near the front of the school, so he ducks out the nearest exit, his feet hitting the sidewalk just as the fire alarms start screeching and the sprinklers kick in.

He runs to the next block and ducks behind some bushes so he’s out of immediate sight as the firetrucks whiz past, sirens blaring even at the early hour. Wow, how did they get here so fast? Patrick decides it's not worth worrying over. He breathes a sigh of relief and only allows himself a moment’s respite before getting back on his feet, knowing his lead on Pete is dwindling with each second. And sure enough, the front door of the school bangs open and Pete’s scrambling down the steps, shoving past the incredulous firefighters. There’s smoke coming off him and he’s leaving a trail of singed clothing in his wake. He looks deranged as he runs down the sidewalk. “Patrick, wait! I just want us to be together!”

“In your nightmares, you fucking demon!” Patrick yells as he takes off again.

He makes it two blocks before he realizes his options are few. Pete’s still running after him, yelling insane things about how cute their demon babies will be. Patrick has some serious concerns about hell’s sex ed classes, but his biggest concern is that it seems like Pete could keep this up all night.

“Patrick! Patrick, you can’t run from me forever!” Demon Pete shouts.

_ Wanna bet? _ Patrick thinks. But there’s a little voice in the back of his head that says Demon Pete’s probably right. Patrick tells it to shut up.

That’s when he notices a building up ahead surrounded by shiny, new cars. A glance at the sign tells him it’s a Porsche dealership, and he figures it must be new. Patrick figures it’s as good a place as any to hide from your murderous crush/best friend. 

Patrick runs through the lot, ducking behind cars to turn and watch for Pete. The coast seems eerily clear as he tries the showroom door handle and finds it miraculously unlocked. No alarms blare when he nudges the door open and steps inside. Great. Now he’s bought himself some time to think and plan, because he just knows it’s only a matter of time before Pete finds him again, like a hunting dog whose internal compass is finely tuned to sniff out Patrick and only Patrick. 

The cars are sporty and sleek and probably worth more than he’ll ever make in a year, and Patrick’s sure he would be impressed at any other time, but all they remind him of right now is his fairytale dream that someday he and Pete would have it all together—picket fence, two-story house, maybe a kid or two, and yes, at least one really cool car. 

He walks over to one and runs his hand along the door trim as his stupid dream vanishes like the boogeyman in the light of day. “I miss you,” he whispers into the darkness. “I miss you so much I don’t know what to do.” Patrick sniffles embarrassingly as he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the roof of the car.

“Easy, babe, I’m right here.”

Patrick whips around. “You stay the hell away from me,” he bites out, trying to sound threatening. 

The demon just stalks in closer, a lion hunting a gazelle, Pete’s wide, toothy grin looking sinister beneath the black soulless eyes. “You can’t scare me, Patrick,” Demon Pete laughs. “Do you know the things I’ve seen in hell?”

“No, I don’t,” Patrick spits out. “And it seems you didn’t enjoy your stay, either. So, I don’t get why you’d want to drag me down there to suffer with you, if you love me so much.”

Demon Pete rolls his creepy eyes as he continues his predatory approach. “Things aren’t entirely good or evil, Patrick. Don’t you know that by now? Or maybe they don't teach that in high school.” 

Patrick huffs in annoyance. “Well, I mean, I guess that’s true for most things, but I think heaven and hell are pretty black and white,” Patrick finishes with a shaky laugh. He takes a subtle step to the side, hoping he can make it to the end of the car and run before the demon has him trapped, if he’s careful enough.

“You think heaven’s so great, huh? Will you be happy when you die and see I’m not there? That sounds like a fun way to spend eternity to you?”

Patrick falters and loses his footing. “But—” he starts, trying to come up with a reasonable response. He can’t. “Okay. Yeah,” Patrick admits. And he fucking hates this demon for being the one to bring up the most logical point at play here, but of course a demon would know how to cut him and make him bleed; it’s kind of its job, right? Patrick raises his eyes to meet the demon’s gaze, and sees—fuck, he’s right in front of Patrick and Patrick's escape route is gone. He can’t even look away, so he just stares up at Pete’s beautiful face—the jawline he traces in his daydreams, the tempting lips that hide Pete’s smile, revealing it at just the right time, like clouds parting in front of the sun’s vibrant rays. 

“I don’t know how I’ll survive being somewhere forever without you.”

“You won’t have to. You can be with me always, Patrick.  _ Please _ ,” the demon pleads, his eyes returning to Pete’s natural honey color for extra effect.

“I–I…” How can he say no to the face of the guy he loves? But on the same token, how does he condemn his soul to hell so easily?

Demon Pete leans in closer. “Not so clear cut, is it?”

Patrick’s heart is at a gallop, fear and anticipation clashing marvelously in his veins as Demon Pete’s face stops inches away from his own. The demon presses Patrick against the side of the car until the door handle digs into Patrick’s skin and throws him off balance. Suddenly Patrick’s pinned against the car. Pete’s hands are wrapped around his arms, and it’s pretty obvious that death only made Pete stronger, because Patrick can’t move an inch. The most terrifying realization, though, is that half of him doesn’t even mind, because this is technically Pete that’s holding him here. But then again, it’s just as much not Pete in all the ways that matter most, and the blending of the two together is bringing Patrick's mind to breaking point. 

“I d-don’t know,” Patrick says, quivering. “I don’t know what’s good or evil or what I want, okay?”

“I think you do, and it scares you.”

Patrick closes his eyes and turns his face away. He’s breathing heavy from the stress and he knows he needs to calm down before his asthma kicks in.

But Demon Pete has other plans. “Let me help you see,” the demon whispers against Patrick’s temple, his icy lips making Patrick shiver. Cool fingertips brush against Patrick’s forehead and the touch is so familiar that his nerves stand on end, waiting for the usual slide of Pete’s fingers through his hair. But it doesn’t come.  _ Not Pete _ , Patrick reminds himself. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut.

“Do you remember that time last summer—I think we were playing a bar or something—and the van broke down?” Pete murmurs, his voice a little muffled from where his face is buried in Patrick’s hair, like he’s savoring the feeling of holding Patrick. It’s such a Pete thing to do, and Patrick feels that tug in his chest, hears that pathetic, defeated voice in his head telling him that even the worst Pete is better than no Pete at all.

“I remember,” Patrick says, voice thick with emotion. “What about it?”

“We were…huddled up in the back on the side of the road in some one-stoplight town between Nowhere, Wisconsin and home, waiting for a tow truck. It was super late. Maybe three a.m.?”

“Yeah. My mom was so pissed the next day,” Patrick mumbles.

“She was,” Pete agrees, and Patrick can hear the smirk in his voice. “But the thing is, in that moment, when we were out there basically alone and you were freaking out that we were going to get murdered, the one thing you trusted was me. You climbed into my lap and rested your head on my shoulder, and I rubbed your back until you fell asleep.”

That hadn’t been one of his finer moments in hiding his affection for Pete. Patrick feels his face heat up, and he’s glad that Pete’s too busy nuzzling the crook of his neck to notice. “Yeah, I…I felt safe, I guess.”

“Don’t you want to feel that way forever? I can give that to you, if you’ll let me.” Pete pulls back just enough for Patrick to see that sincere expression of Pete’s that he’s  _ always _ been a sucker for. 

Patrick wants to break, so badly. Pete loving him, in any form of the word, is the only thing Patrick has ever wanted since he first saw Pete’s face. It takes a lot of willpower for him to remember that there’s a catch, and a pretty fucking big one, at that. “But you have to kill me. Like, I…I have to let you kill me. That’s—why is that the price? Why does trusting you and being with you mean  _ I have to let you kill me? _ Not to mention that you’d then drag my corpse into literal hell with you and I’d never be able to turn back.”

Demon Pete bites his lip nervously. “Patrick, babe, don’t you get it? If I let you die on your own time, you’re not going to the same place…”

What? So when Patrick dies, he’ll go to heaven, but Pete automatically went to hell? Even in Patrick’s most objective (but still very biased) opinion, Pete’s one of the best people he knows. Something’s not right, here. “Why are you even in hell?” Patrick demands.

Demon Pete looks even more unsettled. “I can’t— I’m not supposed to tell you, okay?" he hisses. "They told me I can keep you but... you're gonna have to trust me. Just come with me, we’re going to be happy in hell together. That’s all you need to know.”

"No, not until you tell me what's going on, and that's final," Patrick says, mustering up the only traces of confidence he has right now.

"I didn't want to do it this way, babe, but you're leaving me with no other options."

Patrick’s not really sure what happens next, but somehow, he’s free, the hands binding him in place gone. The ground is shaking, and it’s clearly Demon Pete’s doing, as he stands a few feet away, fists clenched at his sides, the showroom floor breaking into rubble beneath him as fine powdery debris rains down from above.

“What the fuck, Pete?” Patrick shouts. His survival instincts kick in and he yanks open the car door and climbs in for shelter, but it’s immediately evident that he won’t be safe until he’s outside the building. Patrick rips open the compartment under the steering wheel with shaking hands and starts fiddling with the wires inside.

He hears loud cracking noises as larger parts of the roof begin to cave and crash into desks. One hits a nearby car and the alarm rings out, ricocheting sharply off the walls, like needles flying into Patrick’s ears. He can somehow still hear Pete above the ruckus. “It’s for your own good, Patrick. It’s for  _ us _ ! For our future!”

“Sure it is, you psycho. You almost had me for a second!” Patrick shouts back.

Ironically, it was Pete who showed him how to hotwire a car, and now Patrick’s using that knowledge against him. When the right wires finally spark, Patrick cheers and shifts the car into gear. He’s barely a licensed driver, but he knows how to aim well enough to hit something.

Patrick turns the wheel toward where Pete is still trying to tempt him, talking about making Patrick his “queen of the underworld.” Really, this shouldn’t be a hard thing to do; his life is in danger. But no matter how hard he tries, when he looks at his pursuer’s messy dark hair and toothy smile, all he sees is his best friend, who should be cuddled on the couch next to him instead of engaging Patrick in a high-stakes game of cat and mouse.

“Patrick, what are you doing? There are plenty of great cars in hell and they’re all  _ free _ because there are no laws. We’ll get you one just like this down there. Come on, babe.” Pete moves toward the driver’s side of the car, reaching his hand out, as if to open the door. 

Patrick’s panic flares and his brain switches gears from fight to flight in a millisecond. He slams his foot down on the accelerator, thanking god he must’ve picked the one automatic transmission in the entire dealership as the car lurches forward with an earsplitting squeal over the heavily waxed floor—

And smashes through the thick glass pane ahead of him. He miraculously makes it out in one piece, then goes careening through the parking lot, drifting onto the street through the open gate. After that, he’s gunning it, the car accelerating past sixty as he heads…well, he’s not sure where, exactly. All he cares about is getting as far away from Pete as possible. 

Patrick blows through several stop signs without even getting honked at because the road is strangely devoid of any traffic. Must still be too early for even the early risers to be up and about. He’s been driving for about ten minutes when he looks out the window and—huh, he could swear he’s already passed this house on the right with the white van parked in the driveway and the massive tree out front. A few times, actually. 

He slows down to look around, and—fuck. The house on the corner is that same hideous shade of green he keeps seeing, and the one across the street has that familiar stone path and garden gnomes. Patrick pulls over and stops the car.

“What the fuck?” he screams, pummeling the steering wheel until his hands hurt. “Why won’t you leave me alone? I don’t want to go with you!” But even as he speaks the words, Patrick knows there’s a part of him that doesn’t agree, that’s glad (in some deranged way) that Pete is somehow trapping him in a time warp. Because then it’s not over. Pete’s still here, and Patrick’s still alive. Would it be so bad to keep this up for a while longer?

“No! I can’t—why is this happening to me?” Patrick says pathetically, leaning his forehead against the wheel. He knows he needs to get out of this car if he wants a fighting chance. He’s kind of scared, though, that Pete will pop up like a Jack-in-the-box the second he opens the door.

Patrick steels himself, his breath coming a little faster and harsher as he pops the handle on the door, his eyes darting around for any sign of his demon-possessed best friend. Some rustling leaves give him a mild heart attack, but it seems Patrick’s only company is the scattering of weathered lawn gnomes across the street. He doesn’t know what’s coming next, but he figures staying here is the dumbest thing he could do, so Patrick walks. He pads along the road slowly, so his footfalls won’t give any indication of where he might be and he can keep an eye out for anything hiding among the landscape. 

Still, there’s this nagging voice in the back of his head saying he can’t keep this up forever and Pete will find him and he needs a plan. Blah blah blah. He has to admit that this hypervigilance stuff is kind of getting to him, though. When the next block brings a kitschy diner, complete with a gigantic retro neon sign in the shape of a roller skate, he doesn’t ask questions.

***

The diner smells like a mix between his grandma’s kitchen and a fast-food joint. Despite the beacon-like exterior, the inside is empty, save for stacks of dirty dishes. Patrick’s not stupid, though; he knows Pete will find him again, and he probably doesn’t have much time on the clock to come up with a plan.

Which is how he ends up huddled under a table in the back by the restrooms. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whines, his forehead resting on his knees. How did he end up here, running from the guy whose arms he’s always felt safe in, having to choose between forever and never again? Patrick wishes he could travel through time, to before any of this bullshit happened that he can never undo. He’d go back to the night in the broken down van and tell Pete everything he’s ever wanted to say, no matter how stomach-lurching it felt. He’d lean in, heart pounding like a hammer, and press his lips against Pete’s. He’d stick it out until Pete either pushed him away or drew him closer.

Then maybe things would have been different tonight. Pete would’ve stayed in with him and they’d have cuddled up to watch some movies and made out. Or, even if they had gone to the party, that girl wouldn’t have lured Pete away, and they would’ve just found the jerk they went there to see and gone home. But now that’ll never happen. He’ll never get another chance.

Because Patrick is a coward. That’s what it all boils down to. Even when his heart and his happiness are on the line, he still can’t take a risk.  _ Pete, I wish you were here. You always know what to do _ , Patrick thinks. 

The door dings open loudly. “Tricky? Are you in here?”

Patrick groans internally.  _ I take it back _ . He shuffles closer to the wall as quietly as he can.

The demon’s footsteps are moving further away, toward the center of the restaurant. “Come on, Patrick. Just come to hell with me. Be my bride. It’ll be fun and you’ll have demons at your beck and call. And we’ll have demon babies! I’d have to learn how, but you can make them with magic! We’d have a whole bunch of them and maybe a demon dog, too.”

Patrick’s heart swells oddly at the thought of a life with Pete, even a demonic one. He forces the emotion back down, reminding himself to think rationally. Ordinarily, that would be an easy task, but he only narrowly turned Pete down at the car dealership, so he’s really not liking the way the odds are stacking up. And yes, Pete’s right—that does terrify him.

“Patrick? I can hear your heartbeat, so I know you’re in here. I’ll find you eventually.”

Patrick’s pretty sure every four-letter word known to mankind floods his brain for a few seconds. Then he’s ducking his head around the edge of the seat to see where the demon is positioned. When he sees Pete’s facing away from him, he reaches up and snags a couple pieces of flimsy silverware from the table—a fork and a knife. Patrick knows at this point that there’s probably nothing on earth that could kill a demon, but some method of defense is better than nothing at all.

“Listen,” Demon Pete continues, “I know you’re probably nervous about getting married and everything, but I promise it’ll be okay. It can just be an intimate little ceremony with a few of our favorite demons. Nothing too fancy. Then we can go back to our hell mansion and—oh! Shit, are you nervous about the wedding night?” Pete turns and starts pacing in the opposite direction, heading unwittingly closer to Patrick’s hiding spot. “We don’t have to consummate everything right away, but you know, it would be nice to get to have sex with my hus—”

“Shut up!” Patrick yells in exasperation as he ducks his head into the aisle. “Just shut  _ up _ for once, will you?”

“Patrick!” Pete’s face lights up as he makes a beeline for him. 

Oh, how Patrick wishes this were his Pete again, and he could just throw himself into his arms and know he was home. But it’s not, so Patrick grips the fork tightly, takes aim, and launches it at the demon.

The fork does make contact, but it doesn’t turn the demon into a puddle or anything exciting. Demon Pete chuckles lightly as the metal clatters to the floor. “How many times do I have to tell you, Tricky? You can’t get rid of me.”

That unfortunate reality is becoming evident. But is Patrick really just supposed to give in? He’s just supposed to believe he’s meant to die at sixteen and never even graduate high school? It feels like such a waste to throw his life away just when he’s finally nearing his goal: a life built on treble clefs and guitar strings.

Patrick wants it so badly he can taste it, and he thought they were getting close with their band. Even if he survives this demon and makes it on his own, Patrick's afraid it will be a bittersweet and hollow victory without Pete by his side. Is it worth walking away from everything that gives him purpose just to keep his heart beating?

“I don’t know what to do, Pete. I don't know how this is supposed to end,” he confesses, and finds it’s the most truthful thing he’s said all night.

“Patrick, babe,” the demon says, coming closer. “Don’t you want to be together? We can have the life you’ve always wanted. It’ll just look a little different, is all.”

Why is this literal demon from hell the only thing that makes sense right now outside of his own mind? Why? “I…well…” Patrick just shakes his head helplessly, caught in limbo between what’s right and what he wants. He’s still not sure which choice is which. 

Then Pete grins, says, “I have an idea,” and runs across the restaurant. Patrick is terrified, expecting more chaos and destruction. 

But instead of opening the portal to Satan’s throne room, Pete’s digging around in his pocket and pulling out some silver coins. He walks up to the jukebox and suddenly Marvin Gaye’s voice is coming through the speaker system and Pete is right next to him, a hand extended in invitation, as courteous as a Regency hero. “Truce?” he asks, with an almost perfectly human smile. The next second, Patrick’s on his feet, Pete’s arms around him. 

“Dance with me, Patrick,” he whispers seductively. “Just a few minutes, so we can talk.”

“Well, the song is on, and we’re both right here,” Patrick says, relishing the feel of Pete’s hands on him, guiding him gently.

“ _ Remember the day I set you free, I told you you could always count on me, darling, _ ” Pete murmurs in his ear.

It’s like something out of a movie as Patrick rests his head on the demon’s shoulder and lets his fantasies fly. Pete yammering on about his garden while Patrick prepares dinner, tattooed arms embracing Patrick in an almost-dark room, a familiar hand squeezing Patrick’s at the Christmas dinner table. There’s a raw feeling deep in Patrick’s soul that’s growing more and more insistent, as if to say,  _ this is how things would’ve gone, if only you’d spoken up _ .

Pete’s whispering the chorus in Patrick’s ear as he holds Patrick close, the intimacy of their bodies pressing together a sobering reminder of what’s at stake. Right now, it’s everything they’ve never had together versus everything they’ll sacrifice to get it.

When a gentle hand comes up to brush across Patrick’s cheek, a tenderness erupts in his chest and soon morphs into panic as he realizes that Demon Pete’s right. Again. No matter how far he runs, or where he hides, the hourglass is out of sand and Patrick’s out of options. He can’t save his picket-fence vision from oblivion, but he still has some moves left in the game of Pete and Patrick. He just hopes he’s making the right one.

“I thought you said we were going to talk,” Patrick murmurs against Pete’s shoulder.

“I thought you needed to talk with yourself more,” Demon Pete says back. 

“Yeah, you’re right. You always are,” Patrick sighs, looking into the face that he knows so well, now a vessel for some malevolent creature. He takes a deep breath, repeating  _ I’m doing this for me _ over and over again in his head, like a prayer, until his mouth finally seems to work. “Pete, I…I have to tell you something.”

Patrick’s not sure if the song’s been playing for two minutes or five years, but suddenly, it stops. Demon Pete’s anxious eyes flicker with hellfire as he waits for Patrick to break the silence. 

“Pete, I’m in love with you,” Patrick blurts out. Instantly, a weight lifts from his chest, and it’s encouragement enough to keep going. “I never told you because I was too afraid you wouldn’t love me back.” He looks up into Demon Pete’s eyes. The demon doesn’t say anything, just cups Patrick’s face lightly, staring back at him like he understands more than Patrick could ever know. “But when you came back tonight, I realized something. I think…I think I’ve been lying to myself. Because I knew you loved me back all along.”

Demon Pete nods, and the words just spill out of Patrick like water from a broken dam. “It’s not really you I was doubting, Pete. It's that I didn’t think I was good enough for you, and I was so  _ terrified _ of how much it would hurt to lose you once you realized that, that I never even took the first step. Then I fucking lost you anyway, like some sick karmic joke!” Patrick hides his face in his hands as tears run down his face, burning like only the tears of a broken heart can.

“God, I’m such a coward,” Patrick says, letting the demon pull him into an embrace. “If I could go back,” Patrick says, “I wish I had just let myself be in love with you, and maybe we wouldn’t be standing here right now, with you dead and my life hanging in the balance.” Patrick sniffles a little, wishing red eyes and a stuffy nose were a little sexier, but Demon Pete doesn’t seem to notice or mind. 

“Patrick, it’s going to be okay,” the demon breathes softly, stroking Patrick’s back in the soothing way only a lover could. “I came back for you, sweetheart,” Demon Pete says, running his hand down Patrick’s arm to join their hands together. 

“Of course, you did,” Patrick says, squeezing the cold hand in his own. “Because we’re Pete and Patrick; we’ll always find each other. And we’ll always protect each other, no matter what.”

“Always,” the demon says, his head inclining, lips parted slightly as his eyes gleam with something Patrick can’t quite place. “I’d never let anything hurt you.”

“No, you wouldn't.” Patrick shakes his head, looking up into the only pair of eyes he’s ever found home in, forever altered now. “Which is why this is so impossible, to choose between the love of my life and my own hopes and dreams. How am I supposed to make that choice?”

“I’ll give you anything you want,” Demon Pete pleads. “Anything it takes to keep us together.”

“And that’s the thing,” Patrick says, pulling back to look up at the demon, who’s staring down at him adoringly through Pete’s warm eyes. “More than anything, Pete, I know you’d want me to be happy, no matter what that means for you. Because that’s who you are and how much you love me.”

The demon’s expression flickers for a moment. He doesn’t agree or deny, just watches Patrick warily.

Patrick smiles, looks down and nods as he feels the dull weight of confirmation in his stomach. “You might not think so yourself, but Pete’s an incredible person, and I  _ know _ he’s too good for hell.” He glares up at the demon, blinking back the tears that are still in his eyes. “You’re not my Pete and you never were,” Patrick says, trembling. “He’s already gone and going to hell with some demon who stole his body won’t bring him back,” Patrick spits out.

Then, with every ounce of strength Patrick has, he whips out the knife he’s been holding in his pocket and plunges it straight into the demon’s back. Before the shock can fully register in the demon’s eyes, Patrick wrenches himself from the creature’s grip and flees to the sound of a wounded roar.

Just as Patrick turns to start running again, for what feels like the thousandth time in this never-ending night from literal hell, the ground shakes beneath him and the walls of the diner explode like they’re in an action movie. But just as Patrick’s flying through the air, a hand, no, a  _ claw _ , snatches him. “Not so fast,” an unearthly voice growls in his ear. Every hair on Patrick’s body stands on end as the claws grow longer and more cruel, wrapping around his throat, tearing into Patrick’s flesh as he flails.

“See you in hell, Tricky.” And then Patrick gets yanked backward. Hard. There’s a flesh-burning heat behind him and light so bright that it whites out his vision, swallowing him whole.

Patrick screams.

And screams, until all he hears is screaming. But nothing’s holding onto him anymore. Nothing hurts, and the screaming isn’t his own; it’s…a woman’s? He moves his arm, but instead of burning flames and demon claws, he feels smooth cotton that’s strangely reminiscent of…his bed?

Patrick’s eyes snap open in a panic. Is he dead? Is this hell? Heaven? But as he cranes his neck, all he sees is his bedroom, and it’s completely devoid of hellfire, jukeboxes, and undead best friends. It feels…surreal. Patrick pinches himself and when it stings, a surge of hopeful adrenaline pumps into his veins. 

Patrick rolls over, frantically patting the mound of pillows and blankets until his hand makes contact with the firm plastic casing of his phone and he dives toward it.  _ Pleaseletthisberealpleaseletthisbereal _ , he prays as he flips his phone over to look at the display. 

His phone informs him that it’s October thirty-first at 8:52 p.m. He rubs his eyes and checks again to make sure he’s not hallucinating, but the numbers don’t change, no matter how many times he looks. Maybe…maybe it wasn’t real. And if it wasn’t real, then that means Pete’s still here—alive! Pete’s alive! He  _ has _ to be. 

A car pulls up outside, flashing familiar headlights through the window, like a lighthouse guiding Patrick through the storm. Pete’s car. Patrick leaps from the bed and tears down the hallway and the stairs, nearly tumbling down the last few steps, because his legs simply can’t move fast enough. Then, Patrick’s sliding his way across the foyer, yanking open the door and—

“Fuck, ow! Patrick, I didn’t know Halloween was a contact sport.”

But Patrick’s heart is so full, he’s not even listening as he’s wrapping his arms around Pete, clinging to him like a life preserver. “You’re here,” he whispers. His eyes start to sting and…okay, now, he’s crying, too. He’s shedding actual tears of joy as he relishes the feel of Pete’s warm, tanned skin under his fingers, Pete’s arms embracing him, albeit a bit hesitantly since he probably has no clue what’s going on. But the point is that Pete’s here— _ his Pete _ , not cold, undead, murderous Pete. And Patrick never wants to let him go again, so he doesn’t.

“Patrick, I’m happy to see you, too, but you’re, um, crushing me?” Pete rasps. 

Patrick pulls back to stare into Pete’s puzzled eyes, thrilled beyond belief to see their usual warm amber color instead of demonic black. “Oh, right, um…sorry.” He slowly untangles his arms from around Pete, trying to tamp down the relief and excitement that’s buzzing through his veins.

Pete takes a step back, saying, “So…I guess we’re going to be fashionably late?” as he takes in Patrick’s outfit. Patrick looks down to see he's still dressed in the same clothes Pete dropped him home from school in.

“Pete, we can’t go to the party tonight,  _ we can’t _ ,” Patrick says adamantly. 

“What?” Pete asks incredulously. “Why? I thought we were going for the band.”

“Fuck the band.”

Pete raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. “Well you’re just full of surprises tonight, aren’t you? Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I…” Patrick knows he can tell Pete just about anything, but having to explain a nightmare about Pete’s death and subsequent horror-movie comeback is probably beyond the boundaries of their friendship. “Can you just trust me? I have a bad feeling about it; I’ll explain later.” 

“Like…an if-we-go-to-the-party-one-of-us-will-be-kidnapped-or-murdered feeling?”

Patrick’s mouth drops open in horror for a moment, wondering if maybe…

But then Pete starts laughing and pulls him in for a hug. “Aww. Tricky, you don’t have to make up a scary premonition about my demise to get me to stay in with you.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Patrick mutters, pouting.

Pete smooths Patrick’s hair back fondly. “Why don’t I order some pizza and we can watch like  _ Nightmare Before Christmas _ or something?”

Patrick feels his lips quirking into a smile that matches Pete’s own, and goddamn Pete for always knowing how to make Patrick feel better. “Okay. Sounds good to me, Petey.”

***

Ten minutes later and one pizza ordered, they’re cocooned together in Patrick’s bed while the opening credits roll. Between them is a bag of vampire Hershey kisses filled with strawberry cream—the perfect candy for Patrick, because, as Pete puts it, “they seem feisty on the outside, but they’re really just soft and sweet in the center, kinda like you.”

Patrick just blushes and unwraps one of the candies as he snuggles into Pete’s side.

"Do you want to tell me what happened now?" Pete asks, his brow wrinkling with concern. 

God, Patrick missed that expression. And the way Pete watches him, hangs onto Patrick's every word like it's the meaning of life. For Pete, maybe it is. Because this isn't simply a friendship between them; it never was. So Patrick tells him everything. Except for the marriage and the demon babies—that part is just for Patrick to know. 

By the end of it all, Patrick's resting his head on Pete's chest as Pete asks him questions, like he's not concerned at all about Patrick's mental stability. Patrick's starting to wonder why he was worried to tell Pete, even for a second.

And then— "So when did you wake up? What happened?" 

"Um..." Patrick shifts uncomfortably. Shit, he knew this would come up, but he still isn't fully prepared. 

"You don't have to tell me if it's too personal or something," Pete says soothingly as he runs his fingers through Patrick's hair. "I just thought you'd feel better talking about it." 

"No, I want to," Patrick says, turning his face a little more. He can just see one of Pete's eyes now, beyond the crest of his jawline, and the view makes him  _ feel things _ .

He swallows thickly. "I woke up because I realized...it wasn't you. Because you wouldn't put me through that." 

"Not in a million," Pete agrees. They're both silent for a moment. Then Pete says, "That asshole did get one thing right, though," in a hesitant murmur. 

"Oh? What's that?" 

"I would crawl right out of my grave and through hell for you." 

Patrick thinks his brain short circuits, because everything Demon Pete said was true. All of it. And Patrick knows this is the moment when he's supposed to say the words etched into his heart, but he's never been good at that sort of thing. That's Pete's territory. 

Pete brushes his thumb over Patrick's cheekbone so softly that Patrick wants to cry. "What's on your mind, sweetheart?" 

"I love you," Patrick blurts out. 

Pete stiffens underneath him for a moment, like he's not sure what Patrick's really saying or how to react. "I love you, too, Trick," he says warily. 

Patrick shifts so he's half sitting up and lays a tender hand on Pete's face. "No. I...I don't just love you, Pete. I'm  _ in love with you _ .” Now that Patrick's finally found the words, it seems like they won't stop coming until they actually leave him out of breath. “That's what I'm trying to say, but it's really not enough because like  _ I love you _ to a level that's so terrifying that my mind put together a nightmare to convince me to tell you because even my subconscious knows and it's tired of me being too scared to say it." 

Pete's smirking at him now. "Patrick," he says. 

Patrick clamps his mouth shut and stares back at Pete, eyes wide with anxiety. A hand runs down his back and rests on his waist and Patrick shivers. 

Pete sits up and looks him in the eye firmly. "I'm going to say this and I want you to listen well, okay?" 

Patrick nods. 

"Sweetheart, I've been yours from the moment I met you. I was just waiting for you to want me back."

Patrick’s heart is so warm and full, he feels like he swallowed the sun and his chest will burst any moment if he doesn’t let it free. “Pete!” he cries, tackling Pete back into the bedding in a fit of giggles. “Oh, my god,  _ yes _ !” He peppers Pete’s face with kisses until Pete’s glowing like the sun’s inside him, too.

“Say it again,” Pete whispers, his eyes filled with wonder as he wraps his arms tightly around Patrick’s waist.

Patrick climbs into Pete’s lap and straddles his hips, then leans in so his lips are right against Pete’s ear, and he can feel the quickened pace of Pete’s heart through where their chests are pressed together. “I love you, Pete,” he whispers. “Now fucking kiss me. I stabbed a demon to get back to you.”

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Pete whines, and he leans up and kisses Patrick like he really has been waiting forever for this moment.

Patrick’s imagined a million times what it would be like to kiss Pete, but somehow, his imagination has never come close to the reality. It’s slow and heart-stopping and toe-curling and Patrick’s beating himself up for every moment he’s wasted with his lips not pressed to Pete’s.

“So, this is why you wanted me to stay in with you, huh?” Pete pants against his lips when they break apart.

“Well, I actually just wanted to stop you from becoming one of the undead. The kissing is an added bonus,” Patrick says cheekily. “But really? Losing you in that dream was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, Pete.” He swallows hard, trying to keep his cool, because he  _ will not _ be that guy who ruins his first kiss with his crush by crying.

Pete reaches up, his eyes warm and glinting with understanding, and cups Patrick’s cheek. “You know, I think I owe my nonexistent demon self a thank you, because without him, I wouldn’t be kissing the hottest demon hunter I’ve ever seen.” 

“Demon hunter, huh?” 

Pete grins, all gleaming white teeth and adoring eyes. “Yep. And you should see his fucking mouth. I think I want our next song to be about it.”

“A song that  _ I’m _ going to sing, you realize,” Patrick reminds him.

“Come on, Patrick, the world should know how awesome you are, so if you aren’t going to tell them yourself, then I guess I have to write the words for you.”

Patrick shakes his head and laughs. “What am I going to do with you, Wentz?”

“A lot, I hope. Do you want me to draw you a map?” Pete teases back. “Because, seriously, Patrick, I love you more than zombies love brains or vampires love blood. Come to think of it, why do all supernatural creatures have some sort of gross craving? What’s up with—”

Patrick kisses him. Hard. And he doesn’t stop. Well, except for when Pete needs to like, breathe, because Pete breathing is a gift he’ll never take for granted again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! Have a safe and spooky Halloween!!


End file.
